Chapter 4:
From North
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The ride back home was uneventful at best and outright boring at worst.
Candana made sure her feelings did not reflect on how she portrayed herself to the people around her. She was, after all, a high magus and was expected to look and act as someone worthy of her station. But still, maintaining a calm and collected facade can only get tiring after a long day on the road. The stark landscape of nothing but ice and snow certainly didn't help and the tense atmosphere she could do without.
Perhaps it was a good thing. On the bright side, she finally had the time and opportunity to admire the tranquility of the northern landscape. No longer must she look at a well-sculpted valley or a lush forest and expect an ambush. It did not stop her from sending a familiar to double check though. Better to be cautious than dead.
Strangely enough, there was a beauty to be found in a desolate land such as the north. It was almost akin to walking through the graveyard of a fallen nation. There is a sanctity everpresent in the land itself.
Could it be the 'Wind'?
Candana remembered poring over every book she could find in the beastmen's archives for any reference to the enigmatic entity known as the 'Wind'. She found none, instead, she found shelves and shelves worth of books as old and worthless as the castle it belonged in. The evidence showed in the decrepit state of the books and how much the magus could make sense of its contents. She had also found a handful of notes which appeared to be translated from a book written in a very ancient and very much dead language of Primordial. Which was strange on its own and rare. Even the historians could barely make sense of the ancient language which appeared like a cross of illegible scribbles and nonsensical imagery.
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"Excuse me," Candana said to a passing beastman. A servant, judging by her plain clothing. A pair of white rabbit ears stuck out from her hairline: a northern rabbus, the magus concluded. "May I ask who translated these books?" The magus hoped the beastman could understand Asharian. She did not, judging from the confused and fearful expression she wore on her face
So Candana tried again, this time spoken in Southern Beastongue. The rabbus understood.
She nodded and explained (in a heavily accented southern) that it was the King's son who translated the texts to Northern Beastongue.
The magus knew little about the language the Northerners use, except how vast the difference is between South and North. A few phrases perhaps, but that was it. Still, Candana was confident she did not make a fool of herself during that time.
Candana thanked the rabbus, who scurried away as fast as is proper. From what she understood in her line of questioning is that the tome is a children's storybook of some sort. A very ancient children's storybook indeed, the magus thought wryly. It was the title, however, that caught Candana's attention. The rabbus read: Galatea.
The book and notes were safely tucked away among Candana's baggage.
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Candana's thoughts were interrupted, having caught a glimpse of Prince Astellar riding at the forefront of the formation, like any good leader should. The wolven child rode not far behind. She gave the boy a wary glance over. A quick estimation suggested that a simple lightning spell would be sufficient to incapacitate the boy from her location in a span of two seconds. Incantations and all.
Or so, at least she thought on the first day. She genuinely believed the boy would try something --anything!-- to escape or harm the prince. She even cast a silent protection spell for Astellar to mitigate most of the damage. The weird glance the prince threw her way made it clear he knew of her intentions.
It had been five days since then and the wolven has yet to try something... or say anything.
Ever since they left Winter's End castle, the boy had not uttered a single word to anyone. Even during the nights at camp when the soldiers thought themselves clever for jeering and shouting curses at the boy behind their prince's back. It proved ineffective.
The boy did not speak, at all. If Candana was absent during that confrontation in the throne room, she would not believe the boy capable of words. No, she would have readily believed him as mute. So it was not that the wolven child was incapable of speech, it was that he refused to do so. Although, his inability to understand Asharian could have played a part in his silence.
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Although, his glare alone has dissuaded the soldiers from doing him harm. Something about those amber eyes that seemed to glow in the right light. Not to mention that he looked like a miniature version of his father, silver hair and all, who caused enough problems to warrant a war. Prince Astellar was seething with rage when he found out that his own men had tried attempted to hurt the child. He had the instigator executed and the rest whipped for insubordination. After that, the jeering stopped.
The glares remained.
It was safe to say that the prince and the magus made good use of what little time they had together. Oftentimes, they snuck into the other's tent and simply basked into each other's warmth. The area silence spell in Candana's spell tome had finally found a practical application. Then, before morning comes, they separate and their secret was safe.
Or so she thought.
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A pair of amber eyes watched silently as his father's killer depart from the snobbish woman's temporary lodging. Strange, he thought. For what reason must they sneak like hunters in the night? The wolven child wondered if it is some sort of a game between the Southern humans. Perhaps it was a challenge if one could surprise the other during their sleep. If so, then these humans are more dangerous than he thought, for they train themselves to be ever-vigilant from the dangers that skulk in the shadows.
Then why employ incompetent sentries? Do they not see the skulduggery inside their own ranks? The wolven vowed to double his awareness from now on.
Seeing as though there is nothing more of interest to note, he returned to the realm of dreams. Like every other night, he dreamt of green fields, blue skies, and a white apparition.
...
Morning came and found the same routine the wolven had grown accustomed to. He was awake by the time the sentry outside had entered his temporary lodging. The first time he was roused by a human was not an event he would like to repeat. So the wolven child rose, his amber eyes met the sentry's hazel in a silent challenge.
The sentry spoke and the child did not understand. It became a morning routine of some kind for the sentry to speak and the child to listen, but not understand. The young man in the fur coat could have been badmouthing the wolven for all he cared and still, he would meet his gaze with one of his own. Another sentry's head peeked from outside the lodging, he addressed the other with an admonishing tone and gestured for the Wildekin to move. The wolven child thought it wise to follow.
The wolven exited his lodging, the pair of sentries always a few steps behind. He noted how he's always in the range of their swords. If they choose to attack, he's at a serious disadvantage. Not unless they use the spear, which if he got close enough, spell doom for the wielder.
He tried his best to dispel such thoughts. I am at their mercy now.
The Wildekin child flinched as he felt a hand grasp his shoulder. It was one of the sentries, the first one if his memory was correct. The sentry gestured to the larger tent in the center of the camp.
With both his jailers in tow, the Wolven went to meet with his father's killer.
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Prince Astellar allowed a soft smile to grace his features, even for a brief moment. The cause of his joy lay before him in papers arranged in a clean stack. Letters, lots of them. Most of them fell irrelevant in comparison to those written by his very own children from what seemed like half a world away. Even the King's words must wait in favor of a boy's recollection of his day, no matter how trivial.
The prince felt giddy. Like a child opening up a present on his birthday. He grabbed one of the letters from his daughter.
"Your Highness, sir?"
Astellar sighed. He supposed it could wait for a little longer. He did make an appointment with someone else, after all.
Prince Astellar looked up from his desk to address the voice calling outside his tent. He lowered the quill on the table and crossed his fingers together, elbows propped on the wooden surface. He closed his eyes and adopted a more authoritative look. "Enter," he commanded.
The flap of the tent opened, revealing the wolven child standing in between the two tasked to guard him.
He beckoned the child inside.
The wolven child entered. First, a wary step, then another. The prince raised an eyebrow. It was as if the boy expected someone to appear from the corners of the tent and stab him in the back. Nevertheless, Astellar expected this reaction... no, he expected worse, despite the wolven King's insistence and assurance. So far, the boy has yet to act in an unsatisfactory manner towards anyone. The glares don't count.
If the boy could speak their language, what would he say? Would he curse the prince out and condemn him? Hard to say. In time, he'll learn the Asharian tongue whether he likes it or not.
Candana had said some disturbing things about Veren'Mythos. According to her, the man he had slain during the battle outside Winter's End could understand the Primordial tongue. When she did some further inquiry about the matter, none of the other beastmen could understand what the words said. He did leave some notes, though.
Prince Astellar waved the guards out. They looked at each other for a moment before leaving.
"Galatea." Astellar simply said.
The wolven child's eyes widened for a fraction, then narrowed into tiny slits. A tense second passed, then another, and another. All semblance of a civilized conversation devolved into nothing more but a staring contest. Astellar got a small sense of satisfaction seeing that it was the Wolven to break eye contact first.
He showed the wolven the book Candana had stashed away.
For the first time ever since their journey began, none of them could get even a rise or a word from the beastman. Not until now.
In the form of a claw to the face.